


Chaparral

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Series: Restaurant Dogs [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wizards are trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaparral

What occurs to Gunn at this point is that the skinny British fuck  
looks really *good* naked.  Less skinny than he thought, and  
there turned out not to be some sort of uptight English kind of  
underwear under all those over-pressed clothes.  Just bare skin  
and very soft grey cotton boxer-briefs that are piled now on the  
ground with everything else.  No t-shirt, even.  The chest he  
exposed has a lot of scars on it.  Just thin white lines, but  
Gunn can feel every slash of the very *sharp* knife that must  
have made them.  Recent, too.  Maybe he can get the story out of  
Cordelia later.  Maybe.

He wouldn't be getting this view at all, except that Wesley  
couldn't cast this spell indoors, and he didn't want to be  
vulnerable in the open.  So they're up in the Hollywood hills,  
sort of watching the city through its dirty haze (*really* dirty,  
which he forgets when he's down inside it, and now he wonders  
what colour his lungs must be turning, non-smoker or no).    
Wesley's bike that both of them rode is sort of off to one side,  
with its oddly butch leather saddle bags open.

And Wesley's crouching, one knee down in the bare earth for  
balance, the other up against his chest.  Painting long, foreign  
letters across his skin with a brush and a jar of something  
that's disturbingly close to red.  His arms are done already.    
Started on them as soon as he'd marked out a pentagram in what  
turned out to be ordinary table salt.

"Gunn, how good are you with a brush?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm not very good at drawing on my back.  Could you do  
this?"  Holds up a ratty old book with a series of symbols  
scrawled in it.  "It has to be perfect."

"Just show me where."

Long white fingers reach back and brush a shoulder blade, then a  
patch on his ribs a bit below and on the other side, then the  
flat place where his spine ends and his ass begins.  Gunn paints  
on the symbols Wesley shows him, very carefully.  A kind of  
charge runs up the brush and snakes into his hand while he does  
it, and he supposes that must be magic, and it feels good, though  
magic usually isn't something he wants anything to do with if he  
can help it.  

So he concentrates instead on the thinness of the skin he's  
marking.  How soft it is.  How good Wesley smells right now and  
the fact that as of sometime earlier today he's got no hair at  
all below the neatly clipped base of his skull.  The shaved skin  
is more sensitive; Wesley shivers every time Gunn touches it, and  
if Gunn wasn't being so very, very careful, that twitching would  
be a big problem.  He doesn't like to think about what happens if  
any of the runes happen to be wrong.

"Done."

"Thank you."  Wesley stands and whispers, and all the marks on  
his body glow blue for a second.  "That's perfect.  Thank you.    
You might have a future in this."

Gunn snorts.  "I'll settle for having a future at all.  Try not  
to kill us both, OK?"  Catches Wesley's little half-flinch before  
the man catches himself and grins.  Thinks again how somebody  
hurt this guy very badly.  That maybe that's why Wesley didn't  
become the wizard he's obviously supposed to be a long time ago.  

"I'll do that."

Just before he steps into the circle, Wesley twists around and  
favours Gunn with a big, crooked smile.  "Watch your fingers."

And steps in.  Closes his eyes, whispers something, raises his  
arms so that all those long, usually invisible muscles suddenly  
mark themselves out against his bones.  "Now."

Gunn sits on the seat of the motorcycle and watches.  He knows  
that somewhere across the city, there are two other Englishmen in  
roughly the same position that he and Wes are in now.  One, the  
one with glasses who flinches when Angel stands over him, should  
be watching, like Gunn is.  The other one would be on a chain if  
Gunn had had his way.  Skinny, scarred, just a weasel of a guy  
who still radiates way too much power for any one being.  Him in  
the pentagram.  Glasses brought Weasel-Man in more or less by the  
scruff of his neck, while Weasel-Man whispered sick nothings back  
at him.  

Wesley's still chanting.  Bends for a minute to touch one of the  
pentagram's interior lines but doesn't muss it, so it must be  
part of the ceremony.  Gunn's more aware that he's being treated  
to a first-class view of a first-class ass.  With the symbol he  
painted hanging like fire just above it.  

Then Wesley straightens and extends his hands, and for a second  
Gunn sees a line of white fire extend from his fingertips towards  
the beach where Glasses and Weasel-Man are casting.  Power  
running up those hard, pale legs and out and into the air.  It's  
the sexiest fucking thing he's ever seen.

Wesley's pants are crumpled against one of the bike tires.  Gunn  
scoops them up and runs his hands over them.  Dark grey.  Wool,  
he thinks.  Hint of anal-retentiveness in the now-ruined crease  
running up each leg.  He's seen Wes in jeans before, and at least  
once in some truly spectacular leather, and he can't figure out  
at all why it's wool that does it for him now.  Except that the  
weave's picked up Wes' scent: sweat and aftershave and the smell  
he used to think was dust but which he now suspects is magic.

Buries his nose in the waistband for a second, then drops the  
pants to his lap.  Rubs very soft grey cloth over the bulge in  
his jeans that's been building stealthily since Wes stripped his  
shirt off over an hour ago.  Bucks against it a little.  Watches  
Wesley.

Who's so deep in what he's doing that if the San Andreas finally  
decided to fuck them all he'd probably drown in the Pacific  
without ever opening his eyes.  Rocking a little, chanting very  
low.  Winding down, Gunn thinks, though he can't really tell.    
Maybe it's the kind of spell that ends really loud, with the sky  
opening and all hell breaking loose.  Maybe Weasel-Man will fuck  
all of them and all the LAPD will find tomorrow is a set of  
charred corpses and one harmless-looking English sleaze.

Somehow, he doesn't think that one's coming, though.  He suspects  
that the rat'll finish what they've started if only so Glasses  
can do unspeakable things to him after.

Down to a whisper and then stops.  Wesley's shoulders slump a  
little and his posture regains its soft don't-notice-me curl and  
Gunn realizes he's still rubbing himself with the pants.

"It's done.  The demon is contained."

"What about Angel?"

"He's fine, as far as I can tell.  Herding people out of the  
wreckage."

"You finished, then?"

"Yes."  Turns and steps out of the circle and only afterward  
focusses on the big black man doing mildly obscene things to his  
trousers.  Or tries.  His bare face is prettier than Gunn  
expected, but obviously myopic.  He drops the molested pants and  
brings Wes his glasses.  Waits until he knows Wes can see before  
leaning in and kissing him very hard.

There's a lot of power still running up Wesley's body.  He can  
feel it under his fingertips, electric like the runes felt while  
he created them.  Can follow its progress while it all pours into  
his belly and then into his cock.  Bizarrely-pale skin under  
Gunn's touch, even with the added blood, but it's less  
interesting at the moment than the thin-lipped mouth that's  
returning the attack with more enthusiasm than he suspects Wesley  
has previously generated in all of his staid British life.

Gets a knee between those bare thighs and pulls them both back so  
that Gunn's half-sitting on the bike and Wesley's poured against  
him, making those little noises that are sounding progressively  
less like whimpers and more like growls.  

And rubs them together, *hard*.  Kissing so deep that he's fairly  
sure he could crawl down Wes' throat with almost no effort at  
all.  At some point, Wesley's hands have got busy, because Gunn's  
shirt is untucked and his fly is open and his dick is getting  
some new interesting sensations involving magic residue and  
Wesley-skin and the rapidly cooling air around them.  Shaved  
flesh on his, *hard*, and then Wesley practically crawls up his  
body, so that he's pretty sure that neither one of those bare  
white feet is on the ground, wraps a pretty English hand around  
both cocks, and jerks them off together.

It must be Angel's influence that makes Gunn bite into Wesley's  
neck when he comes.  Smooth human teeth in that flesh, but he can  
feel it giving, and still hangs on another second before letting  
go.  Tastes blood, likes it, wonders what that says about the  
company he keeps.  

Wesley in his arms is drained and lying against him, just a mass  
of sexy, exhausted, still rune-marked Englishman.  Probably so  
tired that he doesn't realize how much he's channelling.  Gunn  
can get random impressions of the others just by touching the  
runes on Wesley's skin.  The one on his left pec shows Angel with  
his legs slung over the edge on the hotel roof, thinking.  On his  
thigh Cordelia, curled up downstairs in the office and pretending  
she isn't worried that Gunn and Wes aren't back, that they  
haven't called.  

The one where Wesley's back and ass meet gives Gunn a flash of  
Glasses and Weasel-Man on the beach just north of the Palisades.    
Scent of strong magic and sex and a hard dash of still-warm  
blood.

Gunn folds Wesley to the ground and wraps around him, watches the  
night rise.  The bushes keep them almost completely out of sight,  
and they're far enough off-road that not even the most obsessive  
cop is going to track them down for a simple indecent exposure  
charge.  When Wes is coherent again, he thinks Gunn might do a  
fairly serious job of licking him, and then they can decide what  
to do for the rest of the night.


End file.
